


Night Work

by apackofsmokes



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Bloodplay, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Penny Dreadful AU, Prostitution, Stiles as Brona Croft, Terminal Illnesses, Theo as Dorian Gray
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6571213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apackofsmokes/pseuds/apackofsmokes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you feel things more deeply, I wonder. Do you feel pain?”</p>
<p>“Do you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Work

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaah, I couldn't stop thinking about this, but I'm still working on Clownin' Around I swear, I have like 3 parts ready to post after the next. So enjoy some Victorian debauchery ~
> 
> Derek is Ethan btw, if that wasn't clear. I'll prob write more for this, because Dark!Scott as Victor really gets me going ;)

 

**_London, England - 1896_ **

 

Stiles knows this is risky, wishes he could stay with kind Derek at the inn and drink, possibly let himself be bought something other than cheap alcohol for breakfast. But pride is a hell of a thing.

So far it’s kept him from completely selling his ass on every street corner across London. He tries to save that for when he’s desperate, when he hasn't eaten in close to a week and has nearly given in to his condition.

Like now.

A model… _fucking honestly_ , he thinks rolling his eyes. Stiles knows a guise and the look he's got to him. A look strangers would and _do_ pay good coin for. Many have paid to paint him; coquettish, debauched, solitary... grouped. But this man - a well known hedonist - he doubts wants avant-garde pictures of his artfully placed moles.

 

*

 

He rings the bell at the address written on a scrap of paper and a put upon looking servant dressed in black, greets him. He's guided silently through a grand foyer and into an open room decorated with portraits and ornate drapery. It's gorgeous and impossibly enchanting. Maybe this was just about snapshots of him to display among these others, though he couldn’t dare match their beauty.

Distracted by the endless paintings, he fails to notice a young man sprawled over a lush couch at the room’s epicenter.

The man is, of course, beautiful… otherworldly so. His hair, golden like a fairytale; his eyes, the color of Forget Me Not’s. Even the air surrounding him seems to hold a glow of superiority.

The infamous Theodore Raeken.

Always spoken about but never seen aside from a glimpse at a party here or a name dropped there. Stiles decides this is a tragedy; someone so extraordinary should be paraded through the streets for all to see.

Theo places his drink down and beckons Stiles forward with ringed fingers. Stiles stops once he reaches the couch.

He must look like a gutter rat in the pristine manor, with his worn vest and trousers, his unkempt hair. Can't remember the last time he'd bought (though found is more appropriate) any new articles of clothing, while Theo sits in a fine damask robe; casual, aloof, a higher breed of human than any Stiles had met before.

“You're quite the lovely little thing aren't you?” Theo says, standing, his voice deep and charming.

Stiles blushes, wondering how someone so _ethereal_  could think that of him. Of his decaying traitorous body. “Isn't that why I’m here, sir?”

“Sir?” Theo snorts. “Please, just Theo. In fact, if you call me anything but, you’ll be asked to leave.”

Stiles shifts his gaze to the marble floor, embarrassed for having already upset his current employer.

“Hey now, none of that,” Theo admonishes, placing his hand under Stiles chin and lifting it so they're in each other's eye view. “A pretty boy such as yourself should never look so pitiful. Come.”

A boy? Theo can’t be more than a couple of years older than Stiles’ nineteen. In this decade that’s practically an elder. Most don’t live past adolescence, much less adulthood.

Lord knows Stiles won’t.

Taking his hand, Theo leads him to what must be the backdrop for his photographs, then arranges him variously; sitting, leaning, hands raised or lowered, neck bared. The servant from before stoic behind the snapping camera as Theo watches, sipping from his crystal tumbler. The flashes cast eerie shadows throughout the room, iridescent and almost blinding.

“Something,” Theo tsks, “something is missing.” He eyes every part of Stiles as if he's under a scope. “Take off your jacket... and the vest. Hell, your pants too, you look terrible in that color.” Beige? He looks terrible in beige? _How rude_ , Stiles scoffs internally, but does as he’s told. When he goes for his shirt laces Theo holds up his hand, “No, leave it. Just that.”

Stiles nods and bares himself in nothing but his shirt that ends at his upper thighs. After another brilliant flash, he catches a slight cough into his sleeve, hoping it goes unnoticed as he spots red marring the white cloth.

_Damn_.

Theo shifts, sitting up straighter, interested. “There’s blood,” he says and Stiles makes haste to wipe his mouth with his already ruined shirt. “Is it consumption?” Theo asks, leaning forward.

Again Stiles nods, this time small and fleeting, his cheeks aflame. “Shall I go?”

“Not unless you want to,” Theo says as he rises, swaggering towards Stiles, who is becoming more and more aware of his state of undress and illness. Theo touches the laces he had warned Stiles off previously and whispers, “May I?”

It’s uncontrollable how much Stiles wants this, wants hands searing his already feverish skin. Everything swimming just out of focus, dizzy with desire. “Yes. Yes, please,” Stiles answers, dazed. “But you shouldn’t.”

“I don’t know the meaning of the word.” Theo smiles smugly, pulling the strings in more ways than one.

“I just– I mean my sickness…”

Stiles tries to turn away, but Theo cups his jaw, holding him in place and licks Stiles’ lip where the blood had been minutes before. “How sweet you are.” Then without looking away, his ocean eyes boring into Stiles’ amber, he addresses his servant. “Keep going, Mr. Harris.”

Theo pulls him close and lifts the soiled cloth over Stiles head, tossing it out of the camera’s view, as well as disrobing himself. _Click_. Soft hands run along his flesh as Theo kisses his way into Stiles’ mouth.  _Click._ His tongue setting Stiles on an edge he didn’t know existed. _Click._

Those same hands grasp onto one of his legs, hitching it around Theo’s hip as a prodding finger finds his oil slick hole – having prepared himself back at the inn, knowing some men don’t enjoy wasting the time when taking him – causing a wanton moan to escape his throat.  

Theo pauses momentarily then resumes the twist of his finger in and out of Stiles’ ass. “It seems you've caught me off guard.”

“Have I?” Stiles asks confused, breathless. Stiles isn't a fool, there are few things that men of Theo’s statute want from him. Fucking was usually at the top of the list.

“Yes, you see I had invited you here with the full intention of just pictures, my dear.”

“And yet,” Stiles smirks, biting his lip as Theo slides in a second digit effortlessly.

“Well, I've always had a problem with self indulgence,” he punctuates with a nip at Stiles’ ear, making his way back to his mouth. Theo must taste the disgusting useless medicine and whiskey and metallic copper on his tongue, yet he doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. Stiles’ back arches where he's firmly pressed between Theo and the curtained wall when Theo finally thrusts up into him, taking all his weight as he brings Stiles’ other leg to wrap around his waist fully.

It’s mesmerizing and sinuous, feels wrong that Stiles could potentially be dooming this wonder of a man to his fate. But the risk seems to urge Theo on, makes him groan when Stiles goes bleary eyed from exertion, whimpering and gasping. The camera still going off over and over.

“I’ve never fucked a dying creature before,” Theo pants into the nonexistent space between them, pinning Stiles’ wrists above their heads and pounding him relentlessly. “Do you feel things more deeply, I wonder. Do you feel pain?”

“Do you?” Stiles sneers.

Theo smirks and offers, “Find out.”

The atmosphere turns venomous, Stiles harshly scratching his nails down Theo’s back. The other man mewls, pushing back into them. Wetness wells around Stiles’ fingertips, the slipperiness making it hard to find purchase as Theo continues to throw him into oblivion.

On one snap of Theo’s hips, Stiles feels a familiar, inevitable itch coat his lungs. _Oh God, please no. Not now._

He tilts his head back and whines, trying to hold it, trying not to ruin this one perfect moment of his fucking god awful life, when Theo nails his prostate. The cry he lets out causes him to cough, blood splattering them both. The crimson striking against their pale complexions.

“Fuck, I’m so–”

Stiles would run, but Theo squeezes him tighter, nosing across his cheek, shaking. Theo’s– he’s laughing, but doesn’t miss a beat – his thrusts never stalling – bringing Stiles closer to a crescendo. He moans loud and shamelessly like the whore he occasionally is, coming untouched, adding to the ever growing mess between them.

He feels Theo pulse within him, biting Stiles’ shoulder with blunt teeth (it’s London, he’s been bitten with worse) muffling his pleasure.  
  
If he dies tonight, he thinks this might’ve been worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> [the trash blog :o](http://smokesforwolves.tumblr.com)


End file.
